


gone are the days

by murgamurg



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, alternate to events in legion, post andorhal, the long journey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-11-30 17:10:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11467980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murgamurg/pseuds/murgamurg
Summary: gone are the days you're used toThassarian has successfully infiltrated the Undercity and saved Koltira. He takes it upon himself to deal with the trauma and uncertainty that comes with six years of torture.





	1. it's gone too far and you're too gone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> au where thassarian finally gets his shit together and trucks through the undercity to save his mans
> 
> I know he makes the deathlord do it in legion (dk main over here) but still. I can dream that blizz would bother to have decent storytelling once in a while
> 
> unedited, unbeta'd.

The black colored mare plods with effort through the underbrush of Hillsbrad. She huffs and whines, exhausted by the hard ride from Tirisfal through the night. Thassarian spares her a wry grin. She is a hardy steed, he doubts she’s been ridden this far in her life. Her owner will miss her dearly when he releases her to the hills after she’s had enough.

Dawn blooms its early crest over the Aerie Peak, far in the east, barely visible through the tall pines. He’d been hoping to reach Thandol Span and thusly, safer passage before the sun’s rise, and perhaps if he’d stayed to the roads, the mare could have made it.

The roads, however, were not an option. Even in Hillsbrad, former heart of the empire of Lordaeron, there were far too many scourge masquerading as decent folk (if Southshore was any indication of how discerning the Forsaken were with their plague). No, they stuck to the underbrush on principle, far away from any passing travelers. Him, the horse, ...and the cloak-wrapped charge he’d wrestled into the saddle in front of him.

The man was slumped over, unconscious, paying none of the scenery any mind. His face pressed into the poor mare’s mane, drooling about as he did best, stark white hair draped across his limp shoulder that jostled with the mare’s clomping gait. Thassarian wrapped his arms around the man more firmly, forcing him more upright. The cloak hid him from the waking world and Thassarian was glad for it, now that he was here. Now that he was safe.

His gaze fell upon the pale, milky nose peeking from below the cloak’s hood. Those deathly blue lips, just as cold.

Koltira.

 

_The forests of Quel’thalas were spectacular any time of year. This time, especially: the cool wind speaking murder across his face, the scourge singing in his ear, the elf, bloodied and beaten and on his knees in the leaves before him._

_“Do it,” the elf spits, Thalassian accent cutting and vicious. Blood dribbles from his lips, his forehead; mats into the golden strands of his hair. Coats his stomach in a great river._

_The point of Thassarian’s runeblade rests against the elf’s chest, a pressing weight that grows heavier as he leans into the cleft mail. The ranger’s shoulders are lax from the pain, bubbling rasps wrack his lungs. Thassarian watches the action as though it were someone else; only a passive observation._

_The Lich King booms inside his head. A clear command._

_Kill him. Raise him._

_The elf grins, blood clots through his teeth. With his last breath, he shouts:_

_“Be a mindless pawn and forever damn your soul!”_

_The sick crack of bones, a wet slurp as the sword cuts through his sternum, and his heart._

_A mindless pawn, indeed._

 

The horse slows -- stops, amidst a stand of pines. She is tired, he knows. Tired of carrying two heavy men for so long. Flesh weighs much, and undead as they are, Thassarian knows he is nothing but light. In addition to his full kit and the ample supply bags slung across his shoulders and hips, he cannot blame the poor beast.

He leans to one side and slides off gently, grateful for the respite to stretch his legs and willing to give the mare some rest for her service. The elf’s body slumps towards him without his support. Thassarian catches the man under his ribs, lifts him out of the saddle without effort.

Koltira is so painfully thin in his arms, mumbling but listless as he lays him down against the tree’s mossy rootbed. In life Koltira was a ranger, versed in bow and sword, thick through the shoulders and arms despite his slighter, elfish physique. In death he’d become solid, corded muscle, hard as the runeblade he wielded (though decaying, as they all were). If not for the scourge’s song in his veins Thassarian would think the man dead -- and well, he is, they both are, but not truly.

Thassarian settles next to him, opens his pack for what sustenance he has left as the mare eats her fill.

“Only a little longer my friend,” he says, though his friend is not listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by "Lifespan" by Vaults. recommended listening. 
> 
> there will be more chapters :) pls comment if u like tho


	2. could you hide a moment from the sun

 

The outskirts of Duskwood only put him on edge. Trees stretch high like a cathedral above him. Sharp leaves like claws grasp at the stars; so thick they blot out the sun and leave the marsh in darkness. This close to the capitol he should be feeling more secure, but paranoia for what he’d done and concern for his companion far outweighs any comfort he could feel in any tenuous Alliance. Real friendships are the ones forged on the battlefield, not through diplomacy. Though Alliance soldiers treat him respectfully since Arthas’s demise, he knows he should not trust them. Others in his position have been treated far worse. 

His eyes fall upon Koltira. The elf draws breath slowly, eyelids flickering, fingers twitching in silent protest of his unwilling sleep. 

 

The mare halts; Thassarian lifts his gaze. A fine bed of leaves cushions the dry grass of the clearing, a small abandoned house rests on the opposite edge of the treeline.

Movement to the right causes the poor horse to stir, a small whinny purring from her lips as she stomps once, twice. She casts a sideways glance to the shadow in the trees and then Thassarian himself for reassurance.

Thassarian only smiles. 

“Leryssa,” he greets the woman, and dismounts with as much gusto as he can muster. 

He clutches her face in his great hands and kisses each cheek gently, wraps her in a tight embrace. 

“Thass, so good to see you -- you’re freezing, you know,” she says, and he releases her immediately. 

His sister gathers her arms around herself and swipes a lock of black hair behind her hood and Thassarian bites his tongue -- she does not want his apologies, she accepts him for who he is now, she only cares for that which is her brother. Her eyes, however, wander to the cloaked, mumbling man with arms wrapped limply around his mount’s neck. 

“Who is this?” She asks. 

Thassarian busies himself with hefting the man from the saddle. He has only become more ornery over the past day of riding. 

“A friend,” is all he says. “The one I rescued, like I told you in the letter.” 

She hums in understanding as she follows them into the abandoned cottage. 

He lays Koltira down on the ratty cot tucked into the corner of the drafty hut. The elf’s cloak falls open enough to reveal the brilliant blue runes etched into his pale skin, the daze in his glowing eyes. The gaunt that has taken to his bones.  

Leryssa pauses in the doorway. 

“Is he-- like you?” She asks, halting. 

Thassarian nods. “Former knight of the Ebon Blade,” he says. “My brother in arms, for many years. I daresay he is my friend.” 

“You sure?” She chuckles, but he knows what it must seem like. 

He turns to her, places a hand upon her shoulder. His eyes meet her own dark ones, just like their mother’s. 

“He is a decent man, Leryssa. He will not hurt you.”  _ Without due cause,  _ he adds, only to himself.  

 


	3. you had too much and it caught up

  
  


A thickly gloved finger lifts the elixir bag from the hut’s lone, intact chair. Thassarian drapes it across his shoulder so that it sits between the joint of his pauldron and breastplate. In the faint moonlight his breath mists -- a bad habit, this breathing thing. A last remnant from the days when he could taste the dew in the air, feel the cool of night deep in his lungs. A nuisance now that could give away his location to the right kind of eyes.

Beneath the shattered window Koltira murmurs and spasms in his wakeless dream. Thassarian assumes that they are nightmares. He has never seen another death knight sleep so long, and he suspects that Koltira has not been sleeping so much as he has been enduring endless hallucinations. Which of these truths he prefers, he does not know. 

He watches the man writhe for only a moment, jaw clenched, teeth creaking and grinding against more pressure than they were built for. Moves the hair from the elf’s cheek when a restless thrash casts it across his face. 

_ Enough _ .

 

This time of night the forest is quiet. It’s morning, really, and Thassarian is content to leave for just this small while. The slumbering form of the mare lay against a tree a few paces to his left -- Leryssa must have been bringing her oats for her to not have run off by now.  _ Surely  _ he jokes,  _ a hardy thing such as she would be able to handle it if the Banshee Queen came calling. _

He sets an undead trap at the door regardless. In his head, he tells the mare that it has less to do with his faith in her, but moreso his mistrust of others.

Through the leaves Thassarian plods, deeper into this stand of trees so that his dark portal would be hidden from prying eyes. He does not want to do this, running like a dog back to those he’d left for greener pastures, but he has no one else to turn to. He must, he  _ must _ . 

Gloves stroke down his face, callous leather catches in his coarse and knotted beard. A breath to steady himself. His fingers trace the shape they know so well in the air before him, and  _ there _ \-- he’s found it, that bright song, that tension.   

A fist clutches and tugs the death gate open. 

 

He lurches foward, falls into the abyss. The transport to Acherus is abrupt and jarring every time. Heavy boots  _ thunk-thunk _ on the Ebon Hold’s floor and the bones of long-dead victims leer up at him from beneath his soles. 

Thassarian orients himself. Up, down; unholy, frost. The spectre of Amal’thazad lingers in front of an ethereal blue light, obscured by a portion of the walkway. If there  _ was  _ any benefit to being under the Lich King’s control, it was that ziggurats such as Acherus used to be much easier to navigate. Thassarian sets off in what he  _ thinks  _ is the proper direction. 

Acherus is quieter, these days. Only a few souls pass him in the hall, and none he recognizes from the days of the Ebon Blade. It seems quaint compared to the scourge-filled, bloodbathed melee he remembers, and part of him mourns the loss of the brotherhood they all shared.   
  
  


_ That white-blonde hair whips in the wind high above Northrend, leaving rime on the tips of Koltira’s ears.  _

_ Long brows knit in response to Thassarian’s questions. “I have no answers for you my friend. I have no answers for myself.” The elf turns his focus on the railing, his fingers clutched around it, the lands beyond. Seeing and unseeing.  _

_ “Where do I go now?” He asks the wind. “Do I return to my people and fight for the Horde? ...Do I follow you, and join the Alliance?” They stand close, almost shoulder to shoulder. It is closer than Koltira usually lets him stand.  _

_ Ethereal blue eyes turn their gaze upon Thassarian, lock him in place.  _

_ “What life do I have left to lead?” _

 

He finds Darion in his office as he expects, swathed in a mountain of parchments and summoning stones. A glass of wine is perched on the corner next to the man’s helmet, balanced precariously next to a few empty vials of ink. 

“Thassarian,” the Highlord greets without lifting his head. Thassarian has no doubt that every one of those letters requests some form of Ebon Knight’s aid. He also has no doubt that all Darion pens in response, is a refusal. 

“Odd for you to visit us at this hour,” Mograine continues. “I had no word in advance from King Wrynn.” 

Thassarian speaks slowly, one hand finds purchase on his sword hilt for comfort as the words come to mind. 

“This does not... concern the King, sir.” He observes the suit of armor in the far corner, steels himself. He has said these words more than once: “This is more of a personal request.” 

The quill drops. “If this is about Deathweaver--” 

“Only just.” He placates. “Please, my lord.” 

Mograine looks up at him, now. Leans back in his chair, folds his arms across his armored chest. Motions for Thassarian to continue: “I am listening.” 

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the flashback scenes so far are from the WoW death knight manga. its p gnarly. 
> 
> also: thank you so much for reading :)


	4. the tide will turn for no one in the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of this wording seems weird but i will fix later.
> 
> (edit: fixed wording)

 

The village tonight, is bright.

Midsummer fires burn rich and lovely against a burgeoning dusk, revellers dance and sing as they appease the spirits of the earth. Silhouettes hold each other close through the chants and rituals. 

Though warm from drink, the reagents vendor still greets Thassarian with as much frost as the death knight could conjure across the sea’s surface. Narrow, slitted eyes weigh Thassarian from his glowing sockets to his skull-clad toes-- he does not judge the vendor too harshly for his prejudice or his upturned snout. The Gilnean plight certainly warrants an aversion to anything plagued. He is thankful that for most citizens, gold still speaks louder than unease. 

Pack laden with supplies, he trudges back through the wood as the sun falls to the west. For now, he has more than enough to keep Koltira alive-- well. With the living, at least. Alive, or even-- awake, is out of his reach for the moment. 

 

 _“The Dark Lady knows,”_ _Darion speaks gravely._ “ _She knew you would come to me. She will be upon me the moment he steps foot in Acherus.”_

_ Mograine fold his hands in front of his mouth. “He is better off with you.”  _

 

He stops walking. 

To his right is a farm, pale goats grazing in the low evening light. Shaggy fur and tails that flip back and forth. Ten of them, perhaps. 

Maybe there is just  _ one thing  _ he is missing.  

The goats bleat at him, wary, chew their cud with anxious fervor when he steps over the fence. One brave enough approaches him, sniffs him as if expecting a treat. He draws a gauntlet across its forehead. It likes the scratches he gives its horns, the light rubs to its cheek. Until he drives a single runeblade through the width of its neck. 

The dying wail scares off the other beasts. Blood spills in a river across Thassarian’s forearm, glorious and red and  _ pungent _ as it seeps into the cracks of his armor, warms his waxy skin. He slings the still-twitching beast across his shoulders. 

It eases his frustration at Darion’s denial. 

 

The house comes into view far after nightfall. The threshold is dark, the clearing silent save for the echo of the footsteps he himself left behind when he left earlier that day, and now the  _ smack  _ of blood against dead leaves. Fat drops from the animal draped across his shoulders.  

Thassarian stops at fifty paces from the door. What his eyes see should not be there--

A shadow, slumped against the doorway of the house. 

He listens for the scourge song and what it tells him, even though he can no longer decipher the words. Another bad habit. 

Steel boots carry him forward with slow, plodding steps until he can make out basic features. The shadow clutches Byfrost -- Koltira’s vampiric blade, the outline unmistakeable -- pilfered from the hut’s corner where he’d left it so careless.  

At Thirty steps: Ragged hair streaks down it's shoulders, frames and hides its face. Any Dark Lady would not wait so long in such a matter, he assures himself. If it  _ were  _ her, or even that dog Nathanos: he would already have his second-death. 

Fifteen: Gaunt arms seize themselves upon the blade’s hilt. A low snarl tears from its chest. It has not moved otherwise from its slumped position against the jamb. Thassarian does not allow himself to hope for the thoughts thrumming through his brain. 

At five: The head snaps up at his proximity. Sharp, violent teeth flash stark in the low moonlight; and those eyes -- those eyes so brilliant and blue.   
  
  


_ “Tira!”  _ He shouts. 

Thassarian rushes to catch the elf around the ribs as he falls to his knees. The goat sloughs off his neck and to the mossy ground at their side, but Koltira is mindless. He follows the blood smeared across Thassarian’s shoulder and neck with a single-minded focus, so weak to its allure that he licks and bites at the clots. Moans wrack the emaciated body as he drinks his fill. 

“Tira,” Thassarian breathes, shaking hand clutched at the back of Koltira’s neck as he holds the man close. “Tira,  _ tira _ .” 

 

He hangs what’s left of the goat from the eave; he will gather the skin in the morning when the blood has drained. Most of it went the way of Thassarian’s neck: devoured by Koltira’s all-consuming maw, desperate for any form of sustenance in his state. Never before has Thassarian seen a death knight so ghoulish, so blind to anything but blood and dreams. He does not want to imagine the torture Koltira endured to achieve it. 

The elf, for his part, lay prone and sated on the flea-ridden cot. Thassarian looks him over, allows his eyes to linger as he has not done in many years. 

Between his fingers, he twirls the folded piece of parchment he found on the table when he returned. A note. 

Leryssa will be by tomorrow with a basin, and some washcloths. 

 

Tomorrow, he will undo the Dark Lady’s will. 

  
  



	5. and there's no time in this lifespan

 

It takes a week for Koltira to come back to himself.

  
Thassarian spends the time between imparting runic variants into the elf’s skin, feeding him small amounts of blood, generally keeping the temperature down. The first morning after the goat Koltira vomited almost all of which he’d drank -- including an amalgam of poisons that ate straight through the bottom of Leryssa’s steel basin. He has no doubt the chemical cocktail in Koltira’s stomach is responsible for his current state. Never has he held more disgust for undead apothecaries.

The fractured steel sits outside now. Within hours the tree he’d set it against was dead.

 

Sibling bonding was never a thought when he’d set off for the Undercity, but Leryssa takes the situation in stride. She sits calmy while Thassarian stitches the wounds that open from Koltira’s dry heaves, continues to carry what supplies she can spare from her home in Stormwind, though most of what she brings can never again be touched by living hands.

Now, she leans in the door, lemon soaked cloth wrapped around her nose and mouth. Thassarian wipes down his bare arms from the latest ritual; he is naked to his waist lest stray chemicals eat through his armor. Leryssa smiles at him from the doorway. He can tell by the way her eyes crinkle at the corners, her dark hair drawn up into a high tail.

The cloth lands in the basket and he steps outside with her, leaves his pauldrons and chestplate where they sit in the corner.

“He seems to be faring alright,” She comments as they walk, unwrapping the cloth from her face. “Much less… dead looking, I suppose, these past few days.

Thassarian snorts.  “Don’t let him hear you say it. He preens like a gryphon,” he chuckles. He can picture Koltira’s haughty smirk.

Leryssa hums, seats herself on a wide, lonely stump, prim and proper like the lady she should have been. For a moment, Thassarian’s heart aches.

“Tell me about him?” She asks, and so he tries.

He tries. He really does.

But he has no idea where to start.

  
  
A deep groan from the cottage slices through the quiet, saves him from indecision. His head snaps towards the house and his body follows, drawn by the noise and a song in his blood that sings for his ears alone.

The moment he crosses the threshold he throws his weight towards Koltira’s thrashing form. Thick palms brace themselves against ghastly, runed shoulders, as teeth gnash and snap at him through unintelliglible roars.

Leryssa stands back from the door, hand over her mouth.

Thassarian presses the elf’s back to the bed to the best of his ability, but Koltira is _awake_.

“No! _getoffme_ I-will not--” he writhes out of Thassarian’s grip and the man lets him go, keen on not causing more injuries. His eyes are wild, voice raw and hoarse as he backs himself into the corner of the cot, on the edge of sanity, clawing at his neck for the collar that used to be there. Thassarian’s dead heart clenches.

And then-- Recognition flashes across Koltira’s face.

He stills.

  


“Thassarian,” he chokes. “It is _you_.”

“That it is,” Thassarian replies. He cannot look away.  

Koltira inhales a rasping breath, throat still ragged from his retching. Hands that almost seem fragile in the late afternoon sun rise to touch his own face, the length of his arms. Finally, they wrap around his stomach.

“Am I dreaming?” He asks.

Thassarian can’t help the smile as he says: “No.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we innit now boyees


	6. to break apart the walls you used to tend

 

 

“How long... has it been?”

Thassarian grips tight to Koltira’s elbow through the thick cloak as he shuffles towards the chair. He elects to stay quiet until the elf is firmly seated. If Koltira has to ask, he must not know at all.   

He folds his arms over his chest. “Six years, give or take.”

“So much time…” Koltira laments, hands rubbing across his temples, gaze on the floor. His still-gaunt face contorts in a grimace and he huffs a deep, exhausted sigh. If they weren’t both dead and frozen, he’d think the man was about to sob.

A bare hand finds Koltira’s shoulder, thumb rubbing circles into the dark runeweave. When Thassarian speaks, it is low and quiet.

“I never stopped trying, Tira.”

Koltira’s face screws up in a wry grin; he laughs a short _ha!_ , no mirth in it. He will not meet Thassarian’s gaze.

“I know,” is all he says.

  
  


The first thing Koltira asked for was food. Leryssa was all too glad to take her leave and fetch some. Thassarian thinks it well enough that she take a break; the smell of decay must be taxing on the living, as well as the strange, formerly enemy, just-this-side-of-manic elf coming back from the brink of oblivion.  

She returns within the hour, horse packed with supplies from the village. Thassarian helps her carry them inside though he knows she could have managed. It’s a thin excuse to express his gratitude.

He sets the last bag near the door, kisses her on the cheek as she begins to prepare the first set of ingredients. “I’ll go check the traps, be back shortly.”

He spares a nod for Koltira, and goes about his task.

 

She sets to work making the soup -- _A hearty broth,_ Thassarian had requested --  cold spectre of an elf watching her every move. Or at least, she thinks he is. He hasn’t moved from the chair or taken a breath since her brother left. Just a shadow in a cloak, hood pulled down to hide his eyes from the world.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, in an attempt to break the deathly silence.

He snorts, leans forward on the table to bury his head in his arms. The sleeves of the cloak roll up to reveal glowing blue markings along his pale arms; his platinum hair spilling over a bony elbow.

“Like death,” he quips.

She almost laughs at the absurdity of it. “Such a morbid sense of humor, from the both of you. Is that normal?”

“It is a comfort, I suppose,” He puffs into his forearms.  

She hums, understanding. The silence they settle into this time is simply that: quiet. It takes no time for her to set up the enchanted burner borrowed from her neighbor and set the pot atop it. An armful of vegetables and a couple flasks of water set to boil will make a sufficient stock.

“You and my brother are close?” She asks, because well, she is curious.

He lifts his head. Ghastly blue eyes peer at her from under the hem of the cloak. “We are brothers,” he says. “Why do you ask.”

“He’s my brother, as well. And I’ve never seen him look at me like he looks at you.” She shrugs.

When she looks back at him for a reaction, Koltira only frowns, and says nothing.

After a several minutes, the stock is weak but good enough to eat. She will let it simmer for a while longer, but she bothers to ladle some of it into a shoddy, wooden bowl. It will only continue to improve when Thassarian returns with meat to thicken it.

She places the bowl on the table in front of the elf. His expression has not changed.

“I.. am sorry if that was intrusive,” she apologises.  

He closes his eyes. There’s no response he can give.

He lifts the bowl of soup to his mouth. When he swallows it feels like fire, explodes down his throat and seizes his lungs. Almost immediately he spits it up to the side of the chair, coughing and wheezing as he attempts to clear the substance from his mouth.

Leryssa rushes to him. “Are you--”

“What is this _slop_?!” He bellows, and smacks the bowl away. Without effort it sails and shatters against the wall. The sneer that takes his face is ugly and raw as he stands, fists clenched on the table and he leans forward towards her. “Are you trying to poison me, woman?” He roars.

Leryssa backs away, terror taking hold in her chest as his eyes flash, his teeth gnash. Even in his weakened state, she has no doubt that Koltira could kill her.

“Control yourself, you, you-- beast!” she shrieks.

“A beast, am I?” He growls. He keeps his fist on the table, uses it to support himself as he takes shaky steps around the side of it. “Who are you?” He demands. “ _Reveal yourself_!”

 

The door slams open.

Thassarian stands burning with fury, one arm full of dead hares, and the other braced against the door.

“Leryssa, please."

The woman looks at Thassarian like he’s bathed in holy light. She nods, scrubbing tears away from her face as she stumbles outside.

After her, the door slams shut.

Thassarian drops the hares on the counter. He stalks over to where Koltira is standing, and snatches the hem of the cloak in his fist. He uses the force of his arm to shove the elf backwards until he’s seated in the chair.

Then he growls, in his face: “What on _Azeroth_ has gotten into you?”

Koltira shouts right back. “She tried to poison me! She is….” he trails off. Unsure, now: “She is not who she says she is.”

Thassarian takes a long look at him, and then at the soup on the burner. He releases the cloak, steps over to the pot where the stew is bubbling nicely. Sniffs it, though his nose is subpar these days. As a final measure, he takes the ladle and drinks some for himself.

It is smooth, and warm, and absolutely innocuous.

“It is fine,” he says.

The elf’s fists are clenching and unclenching on the table when he turns back around. Seething with rage, sure, but Thassarian has several other thoughts whirring through his unholy skull.

“Koltira,” he says. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten food?”

His head pops up from the table, brows knit in confusion. “I…” Slowly, he crumples inwards on himself until he is small. A skeleton swathed in a cloak meant for the living.

“I don’t remember.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some general thoughts about these two:  
> \- i have this idea that both of them would be really close to the chest with their feelings in front of others (hmm i wonder why cougharthascough) but then when they're together and alone they just like. get it. like they know how the other one feels even though they don't every really say anything. that and the whole "they probably have telepathic scourge talk" thing.  
> \- i also feel that their relationship is probably... softer than people make them out to be? like, koltira is never outwardly vicious to thassarian or anything like that in game. they're just cool chill bros just hangin out. so expect more of that and less of the "lets be total fucking assholes for no reason other than we're dead" kind of thing. no hate though, people get to write what they want, so i will write what i want lol.


	7. you took what you wanted to take

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no post i struggle
> 
> needs editing but here u go

 

 

It takes time for Koltira to _eat_.

Thick hands press the cold runestone to the center of the elf’s bare chest, just between his pectorals. Quietly, Thassarian murmurs the incantation to channel the runic power held in the stone into the veins etched into the elf’s skin. His subject gasps and writhes under the pain and pleasure of the infusion, back arching off the cot, head thrown back, low moan building in his ravaged throat.

Thassarian holds firm until the spell is complete and the rune is wasted. Then, he begins another. He concentrates on forming the words instead of the thrumming cords in his companion’s neck.

The runic treatments heal Koltira’s throat enough for him to swallow the broth and keep it down; later still, the soup itself. The real challenge is teaching the elf not to devour the pot whole, because as soon as he gets the first helping down he wants more and more until he vomits, and has to start all over again.

In another day the magicks that bind his body and soul rebuild themselves. Mass grows on the elf’s bones, real _strength_ under that waxy skin. Thassarian hears his song cry louder each passing hour.

 

Leryssa, poor girl, left him a letter pinned to the mare’s saddle that day and has not returned since. _I love you, dearest brother,_ she writes, _but I cannot continue this way._

He does not blame her. His response promises to visit, perhaps when Koltira is feeling... _Better_.

 

In the meantime, the elf is restless. He paces and gripes, still unable to walk much further than the edge of the clearing without serious fatigue. Perhaps Thassarian is in need of an outlet as well, given the way his own nerves grate at Koltira’s behavior. He does not fault the man; were their positions reversed, Thassarian doubts he would be much more pleasant, but never have they both been so stagnant at once.

He resorts to an old tactic. The perfect way to redirect Koltira’s anger, frustration, and paranoia.

 

His mare stands to the side of the shack, huffing and stomping far away from the two men poised to kill each other. Her ebony coat glitters in the early afternoon light as she shifts around, placing the house between herself and her master, settling for a nice rest just on the other side.

“Alright then, let's see it,” Thassarian settles into his ready stance, twin runeblades in his palms. Twenty paces across from his opponent.

Koltira rolls his shoulders. “Only if you stop grinning like a fool,” he spits.

The elf is clad only the threadbare shirt and trousers he arrived in, Byfrost clutched in his hand. Thassarian knows from the way his shoulders slump and the weak grip on his blade that the man is struggling to stay upright _and_ balance the weapon in his grip.

He reads the shift in weight before it happens. Endless days of training together means they know each other’s movements like they know each other’s breath. Koltira moves first, ever impatient, rushing forward with his left and striking out in a wide slash. The edge of Byfrost cuts wild, missing Thassarian’s face by a mile.

Easily dodged, and easier to counter with a move of his own. The blades clang together in a stalemate, Koltira’s frustrated growl only makes him smirk.

Thassarian leaps back, repositioning. He needs to give Koltira a reason to direct himself; in this case, a taunt will do.

“Come now Tira, weren't you trying to kill me?”

“Shut up, you buffoon.” He huffs. “I will be done with you shortly!”

Another heavy-handed swipe, another parry. And so on, and again, Koltira’s frustration growing with every missed attack, every blocked lunge. Byfrost’s glowing edge glitters across Thassarian’s vision, and images from days long gone fall comfortably together with the present.

The one time they ever came to blows, in Andorhal. A shudder works its icy fingers down Thassarian’s spine. The last time he saw Koltira alive.

 

_“I wanted to give you a chance to kill me again,” Koltira sneers at him, mirth dancing in his eyes._

 

It breaks his concentration long enough. The edge of that same glowing runeblade clips his pauldron, staggers him backwards. The elf barks a loud _Ha!_ And charges again.

Thassarian grumbles, stepping out of range of the next few strikes. He decides to try his luck pressing the advance.

He shifts his weight forward to press into Koltira’s space, forcing him to counter hard. He gains ground as the elf steps backwards once, twice. Another strike inwards and Koltira growls, sharp teeth pressed and grinding on their edges.

“What are you waiting for?” Thassarian goads him, presses his weight into the block. Another few steps back and he expects the elf to crumble soon -- for him to be tired enough to return and _rest_ , instead of his incessant complaints.

The bright parts of Koltira’s eyes turn to pinpricks, and the air around him drops twenty degrees. It is clear then, and only then, that he underestimated the strength Koltira has regained.

 

“ _Enough!_ ”

Faster than he can react Thassarian is cast bodily to the ground, back slamming into the soft loam two inches deep. He gasps for the breath he would use to speak and scrambles as Koltira steps over him, Byfrost’s biting edge just shy of his neck. He has never been so thoroughly bested by any opponent, nonetheless Koltira himself.

The elf looms, ruthless, over his prone body. Unbreathing, eyes alight with malice, still as stone and ready to kill. Not for the first time Thassarian thinks, _He is stunning_.

And then, Byfrost embeds itself into the ground next to his head with a loud _thunk._

Koltira’s body crumples forward as his eyes roll back, right into Thassarian’s arms.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading and all your lovely comments :) you guys are the best


	8. yet you never wanted nothing from me

 

 

Thassarian’s chin rests against his chest in a comfortable slump, arms folded across his broad frame, eyes closed in a pleasant state of meditation. Koltira lay in the cot beside him. Recovering. Resting, finally, after such a large expulsion of energy. He expected it to take a few hours before Koltira would come back to himself, and he can feel the runic energy pulsing, stitching itself back together; he just did not expect it to take so _long_.

Not that he’s worried, but--

 

“You’re snoring,” the elf croaks.

Thassarian’s eyes snap open. Tilts his head to the side in a slow motion to relieve the crick in his neck, and peers sidelong at his comrade.

Koltira’s weak, wry smirk hits him like a punch in the gut.

He averts his eyes. “Scourge cannot sleep, you know,” he fires back, looking anywhere else but that playful, arched brow.

“Hmph.” Koltira rolls onto his back, tucks his palms beneath his head. For a moment he stares at the ceiling and his eyes see many hundreds of miles away. “That is what she said to the apothecaries,” He comments casually.

Thassarian straightens, shoulders knocking against the top of the chair. He says nothing. Unsure if he wants Koltira to continue or stop.

The elf continues, regardless: “They strapped me to one of those godawful tables and kept me in pain for as long as they could. They kept saying to me, _scourge can’t sleep, can’t sleep you know._ Salt in the wound, as far as they were concerned. That I couldn’t find respite from them even in sleep.”

A knife, sharp and twisting, embeds itself in Thassarian’s heart. “How long--”

“Weeks. Months perhaps.” Ghastly blue fingers clench a fist. Kolitra huffs, breath frosting in the moonlit air.  He brings his hands to cover his face, pressing into his sockets.  “I will speak of it no longer.”

Thassarian squashes the urge to comfort him and lets the silence settle. If there is one thing he does with his unlife, it will be to rip Sylvanas’s throat from her body and watch her bleed to death at his feet.

“What is it that you want from me, Thassarian.” He asks, muffled.

Thassarian raises a brow. “What do you mean?”

“After ending my life you’ve saved it thrice over and I can never repay you for what you’ve done.” He drops his hands and his eyes roll over to lock with Thassarian’s. “What _is. it._ that you want from me. Why don't you just --” he throws out a futile hand “-- let me rot, let me _die_ once and for all. Save yourself the trouble.”

He frowns at the elf. Eyes intent, nostrils flaring as he chews over his response. He thinks to handle this carefully, but his mouth and lungs betray him. In the end, the words come unbidden.

“I have never... _wanted_ anything from you. Only that you live as I have,” He says, halting. “As you… as you should have.”

It is an easy thing to say, in retrospect. Koltira just stares at him.

Thassarian remembers. Every _day_ he remembers what it felt like to sink his blade into Koltira’s chest and suck the soul from his body. The sick sounds it made as he forced it back in, the wrongness he felt as that undead husk screamed to life. The wailing pain that he ignored, that some part of him watched with _glee_ ; that some part of him watched with horror, and was powerless to stop.

“Stop.”

He blinks. Koltira’s hands are on his face, cupping his jaw. “Just stop,” the elf bites out, voice harsh and filled with emotion.

“I--”

“You realize that you are the only reason I am living?” He laughs, mirthless. A flash of teeth and crinkled cheeks. “Unliving, but still. Without you now I would be rotting in Sylvanas’s dungeon. Without you then, I would have met a worse fate at the hands of the scourge.”

He brings their foreheads together. His calloused thumbs rub circles into Thassarian’s bearded cheeks. A faint scar lines the bottom lid of one glowing eye, the creases of age barely showing. Faintly, Thassarian notes that this is the closest he’s ever seen Koltira’s face.

“I must confess I thought of you often, there,” Koltira begins quietly, voice shaking. “I thought of you carving up the guards, slaking that bitch on one of your runeblades. Taking me away from that place.” He closes his eyes, licks his lips, a rare sign of uncertainty. His voice drops an octave. “In other ways, as well.”

It is lightning through Thassarian’s veins, shocking him awake at the implication.

“We are--” _Brothers_ , he protests weakly, but cannot finish the thought. “You’ve said it yourself, many times.”

“In arms, perhaps,” Kolitra concedes, voice low as he presses his nose against against the other man’s. “...Do you not feel this, too?”

Those frigid eyes flutter open and Thassarian cannot move. He dares not, lest he break some spell that’s been cast upon them. This _thing_ he’s always known in his heart to be inevitable as the slow march to death, but wholly out of reach.

He swallows. It is a bad habit, from a time when his heart bothered to beat. “I do.”

“You fool,” Koltira breathes, and presses their mouths together.

His lips are cold and dead and taste of formaldehyde and rot, but taste is such a mortal problem. Thassarian comes back to himself when Koltira’s tongue swipes across his mouth, seizes the back of that slender neck and gasps. He pulls that body closer, pulls them both down into a flea-bitten cot in an abandoned shack in the middle of an empty forest, far from the place they first met.

No better place, he thinks, to find each other all over again.

 

 


End file.
